Amongst the Beanpoles
by lunanoire
Summary: [slash malexmale SxR long drabble.] Padfoot muses over his new love under the stars, and comes to terms.


A/N: I am particularly fond of this little drabble, just not the flow towards the end. I'm sure in a few months or so I'll come back and re-draft maybe, but not while it's still fresh in my mind.

****

**_Amongst the Beanpoles_  
10/07/05**

He's staring so hard, and he wishes he could stop, but Oh Merlin, if anyone was ever meant to be watched it was him; his grace, his fluidity, all movements of the gods and its something that he, and only he, can see...and that's his secret.

Only he can see the way his hair glints in the moonlight, the way the saliva drips off his grainy pink tongue as he pants from exertion; only he can see the way his eyes light up in the wake of the sunrise, despite his complete exhaustion, when the throes of darkness have been lifted on that one night, that one horrible night at the apex of every moon cycle.

And he so skinny, so damn skinny; if only he would eat, if only he would buy food, then maybe, just maybe his ribs wouldn't show through on those nights and his robes would fit unstead of hang and not bring about worry that haunts and pushes away sleep and it all comes down to this: a diet of choclate and tea just won't cut it, even for him.

If he tells him, opens his heart and soul and offers love and protection, he'll shake his head and pretend it never happened, because that's just the way he is and on top of that he doesn't like blokes, and maybe that's a good thing; it'd be better than being rejected because he doesn't love _him_.

This secret, it bursts inside of him like a balloon thats too full, leaving shock and tingling and a dubious laugh, which comparably, is not-an-altogether-horrible result, because _it could always be worse,_ he thinks; he thinks this and wishes that it wasn't a lone secret, but one to be shared, one to be whispered, one to be moaned: his love extends farther than sharing a dormitory, or a long-time friendship...it should be shouted to the night sky that his love extends beyond the moon and back.

Secrets like his are dangerous, walking the razor line between truth and lie, where one would tell any lie to hide the truth, although he knows that if he ever asked him, he'd have to tell him the truth: he could never lie to him, even in the face of death.

People die for love, he muses, and finds irony in the fact that he can't even look him in the eye most days, or bring himself to bring about more than two coherent sentences that begin with the words "Hey Moony..." without ending off with a withdrawing hand gesture, a gurgling noise deep in his throat, several hours of self-beration until he up and does it all over again: his way with words around him nowadays aren't worth a sickle's worth of salt.

And somedays he thinks he should just be a man, instead of the poofter he is, and just come out and tell him, letting the chips fall were they may and hoping for the best; but other days, he's just content in watching him, the way the fire makes his eyes glow gold, the adorableness of him as he bites the pad of his thumb over a heavy tome, the manner in which his cheeks tinge pink at the mention of anything more risqué than the latest way to boil bloodroot without julienning it.

He thinks all this, as he does every hour of every day of every night it seems, staring up at the twinkling stars above him through the towering stalk-vines of the garden's bean poles, soft moist earth pillowing his head, a gentle summer breeze tossing the leaves and the tufts of fringe on his forehead; _such a common plant_, he thinks,_ beans_, and wonders how something so simple can cause push out the rest of the world to let him think, when nothing else can.

But something else can, and he doesn't realize until a quiet voice is carried to his ears on the soft breeze, that there is only one thing, person, being, perfection...that can _completely_ rid the world of any noise but his voice.

And he's standing there, jumper pulled tightly around his arms in an unconcious gesture of his perpetual coldness, forehead adorning that tiny adorable wrinkle, bottom lip curled beneath his teeth; _such radiant beauty, _he thinks, for someone so quiet and demure, for someone who would pass up a day at the beach for a book in the den, or a proper meal for a cup of tea with honey.

Slowly up he walks, taking a silent position over him, hands attempting to massage warmth into his upper arms; licking his lips, he speaks quietly, his low, rich voice like velvet to his ears. "I've been looking for you."

Such curiosity, such quietness, such brotherly concern; and that was the crux of the matter: that damnable brotherly concern. "Come lie down with me," he tells him, patting the soft earth beside him. "And look at the stars."

He doesn't say anything and does what he's asked, not bothering to pillow his head like the man next to him, but instead wrapping his arms around himself in a pointless attempt to conserve warmth.

"What's today's date?" he asks the man he loves quietly, a question asked at least everyday, for he was never able to keep up with something so trivial, especially when there were girls to be chased and pranks to be pulled and best friends to blame; it didn't happen anymore, especially the girl part, but that didn't stop him from relishing the familiarity of repetition and knowing whats going to come next so he doesn't really have to listen to the content of the reponse, but the _way_ in which it's said, the deep rich voice of the man beside him.

"August 12th," and there's that voice again, the one that makes his heart melt and his mind scream to hear mirrored affections of which it yells; the voice that, to him, symoblizes everything ever valued and treasured in the world, because for him, when it comes to symbols, his Moony is the symbol of all that love has to offer but can never quite give. "Why?"

"And it's just past midnight, yes?"

Silently, the man beside him nods, and turns his head to his left; if it weren't so bloody dark outhere, the moon in the early stages of waxing, he would turn and look at him in return but he knows his night vision is for bollocks when he's not Padfoot, so he doesn't even come near to giving himself away with one careless, helpless, lusty look and maybe that's for the better.

"The Perseids are tonight."

A soft chuckle comes from his right, and the proverbial fist clamps around his throat, lamenting in his ability to cause no other response from him but amusement and that's only a fraction of what he wants; and maybe, he thinks, that just a little selfish. "That's just like you, to remember the biggest meteor shower of the year, but not the day your rent's due."

He grimaces, knowing that, yes, he had forgotten again, and one more time after that and they would lose the aparment, shoddy as it was, but it was still home.

"Sorry," he whispers, and he is but he isn't all at once, because he loves being teased but not at the expense of any more disappointment.

There is a shift next to him, and a he feels the man turn over on his side; a gaze bores into the side of his face, but he won't turn to look out of fear of the revealing enough to make the world tilt on it's axis.

"You know," he hears him murmur thoughtfully. "I'm the only person you ever apologize to. I wonder why that is?"

Swallowing heavily, he blinks at the stars, quite sure that he won't be able to come up with anything that doesn't even remotely resemble the truth, because he could never lie, and finally turns to his right to give the man all the truth he could muster. "You...I respect you, I suppose."

A thin eyebrow arched, pushing his forehead into a set of crinkles that aptly matched the two greying spots behind his temples. "Respect?"

And he nodded, because what was undying love without respect; it was nearly impossible for the two to be mutually exclusive.

There was a silence, then: "If thats true...then why have you been treating me like a leper lately?"

And he blinks, over and over, trying to make the aquiline face come back into focus under the mediocre light of the stars. "Why...I don't treat you like a leper!"

There was a snort, not of derision, but of frustrated amusment, and the man turned to lay on his back once again. "We share a flat, Sirius. You never eat meals at home anymore, I haven't talked to you decently in weeks. You sigh every time I come into the room."

Gaping at the stars as if in attempt to obtain enough oxygen to process this thought, he closed his eyes and sighed. He'd given the wrong impression after all.

"Just like that."

What to do? There was the choice of another sigh and a non-commital grunt and end the conversation right then and there; but there was also the opportunity of a confession lying in wait. But could he risk his friendship for love like that?

_If not now, then when? Ever?_ he thought, then turned resolutely on his side, and worked his way slowly to the few words that would change his life.

"Remus...have you ever realized you were seeing someone in the wrong light, and when you did, everything seemed to change?"

Golden eyes turned towards his and they crinkled at the edges in confusion; _this may not go so well_, he thinks. "Yes," is the whispered answer.

"Well...that happened recently. To me."

"Over...me?"

Hesitating for a moment, he nodded. "I realized...I didn't see you like I thought I saw you."

Understanding seemed to come into the eyes as a revelation, and a soft chuckle filtered through the heavy blanket of darkness. "You finally realized how much different our relationship is."

"Yes."

"And how you don't look at me how you used to." _Perhaps_, he thinks, hopes, dreams, _perhaps...?_

A little intake of breath from beside him, and one last statement.

"You finally realized how you would be getting along better without me."

"Ye- what? No!" And he turns on this side completely now, propping up on one elbow, hovering above his face worridly. "Moony, I never thought that!"

A resolute nod. "Think of how your life would be. Girlfriend, a job, a _life_..."

And this is why he loves him, he knows, because he's so utterly selfless and hates to hurt others because it hurts him more; he a grown man and yet a child all the same and his vulnerability is more endearing than any flutter of any girl's eyelashes.

He inhales and swallows, wondering where the man comes up with these things. "I don't think that. I don't need any of that."

Gold eyes flick towards him finally now, pain and misery deep within them. _He's been holding this in for a while,_ he thinks,_ and I didn't even see it. Stupid, stupid!_

"How can you not?"

_Because I have you._ His mouth opens, closes, and opens again to take a deep breath, never breaking the gaze. "I don't need that...because I have you...to take care of."

_Coward_, he tell himself. _Stupid selfish coward._

He blinks, not quite sure he's heard what he's heard, then shakes his head. "You need a girlfriend. You need a decent house. You can't go around taking care of a grown man, who's no-"

But he cuts him off, getting desperate. It was use it or lose it now, because the last time he had this tone of voice he went off on a full moon by himself, completely convinced he was too much of a burden to the rest of the Marauders. He wound up in St. Mungo's for a week. "Did you ever think might _want_ to take care of you?"

That shut him up. Looking away, he licked his lips, causing a twitch in the other man's groin, not aware of his effect at all. "People don't do that, not unless..." His eyes closed, and he licked his lips again, hugging himself tighter.

"...they love you?"

Eyes flew open, and turned to him. They blinked, as they always did when something particularly incomprehensible came his way, and he gaped for a moment, surprise in his eyes. "Wha...what?"

He cleared his throat, pretty damn sure this was the single most stressful moment in his life. His heart felt like it was about to burst, like that balloon, and he was sure if it did the result would definitly be an-altogether-horrible result. Because love isn't like the air in a balloon, who's expansion causes it to pop. It's more like a cloud: undefinable, intangible, and the only person who feels it is the one who's immersed in it, a slight tickle in their nose and down the hairs of their arms.

"Moony..."

But he never makes it. The man next to him lunges up, grabbing him around the back of the neck, and pulling his lips down to meet his own. After an initial moment of shock, he closes his eyes and melts into the kiss, quite sure that it's okay because _he_ intiated it, and because _he, _quite apparently, didn't mind that he was a bloke after all.

Mentally, he records every detail: the way his mouth tastes like dark chocolate, the faint smell of honey on his hands as he runs them through his hair, the way his teeth scrap teeth as they come back for more.

A hand slids up his chest, and causes a shiver to prance down his spine. He reaches his arm down to his hip, drawing them as close as possible, melding them together if possible. He was pretty damn close when they had to break away to breath, panting.

His hand tightened around the back of his neck, and his head was pulled towards those mesmerizing gold eyes. The smell of chocolate filled his nose once again, and the heavy breaths were soft to his ears. "I...Sirius..."

Smiling, he nodded, and pressed their foreheads together gingerly. "I don't want to leave you, Moony. Just the opposite, in fact..."

His big, round golden eyes just searched back and forth, seeing straight into his mind, and knowing that only the truth was being told.

"..._you_ are the reason for which I live."

A heavy, thankful sigh fluttered across his cheeks, and lips curled into the first true smile he had seen in months. His hand clasped about the front of his shirt. _This may just be the best moment of my life_, he thinks passingly.

"Padfoot, I love you, too."

And, with that, his lips descended.

Later, above them, as pinpricks of light streaked across the sky in a small moments of glory, he lay there, face pressed into a headful of blondish hair that smells of sandlewood and cedar.

There was no place at all he would rather be at this moment, for even the rest of his life. The world makes sense here. He had changed his mind: _this_ was the best moment of his life.

_But, then again, it may not be,_ he thinks.

Because with Moony, you never knew.


End file.
